


Invisible scars

by Esthree



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esthree/pseuds/Esthree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories come to Dwalin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invisible scars

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Saetha, thank you for beta-reading this!

The candle crackles quietly and Dwalin readjusts the wick without even looking at it. It’s already daylight outside but here, in the tent, the candle hardly scatters the dark and thick shadows hiding in the far corners. There is a hollow void inside his head and not a single thought. And those that do come he hastily chases away: all the “suppose that”s and “what if?”s which swarm around him like troublesome midges near the oil lamp.

One moment Thorin comes back to his senses, only to lose consciousness again at another. But even in these short periods of wakefulness he hardly understands where he is and what is happening with him. The wizard and the healers have done what they could, now everything depends on Thorin himself – if he has enough force left to struggle for his life. Force and desire. Dwalin would eagerly share both with him, but this is not a battle where he can stand side by side with his friend. All his experience as a warrior is useless here. Even his modest skills in treating wounds are barely helpful. However, they are more than enough to discern the meaning of the glances that the elven healers are exchanging before leaving the tent: _Rather “no” than “yes”._ – _Almost sure that it's “no"._ And now he is clinging to this “almost” like to that one branch on the burning pine tree, feeling it crack under his hands, threatening to break off at any moment. 

_Hold on, Thorin. You can do it. Show these fucking weaklings that they shouldn’t judge you by their own image._

Dwalin strains his ears to hear the weak, shallow breathing. Thorin is shivering with cold, when only half an hour ago he was tossing about in fever. The fur blanket has slipped off the side and Dwalin readjusts it, pulling it up to Thorin’s chest. A cold gust of wind hits him from behind and the small tongue of the candle's flame starts dancing in the draught. It has to be Óin who was going to come and inspect the stitches. 

“Y-you…”

Dwalin shakes himself from his dark reverie and looks up. Thorin’s eyes are open and his feverish gaze is fixed on something behind Dwalin’s back. He turns around and sees Bilbo standing in the opening. His face is almost unrecognizable under the layer of dust and caked blood. He’s staring down at Thorin, not daring to step inside.

“Bilbo…” Thorin beckons him closer and Dwalin stands up and moves to the head of the bed. The hobbit slowly makes one step, then another, as if he still can’t believe his eyes. Óin follows him into the tent. He moves to the small table in the corner and starts sorting his herbs.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin smiles weakly. “I don’t want us… to part as enemies.” 

“What?” Bilbo looks startled and shifts perplexedly from one foot to another. “Oh…No, Thorin! You’ve always been my friend! I’m terribly sorry that it turned out so wrong…”

Thorin raises his hand to make him stop.

“You have a kind heart… and a valiant one, too. Forgive… my words and… deeds at the Gate. I shouldn’t have… you should get your reward.”

“N-no!” Bilbo puts up his hand in protest. “I wasn’t doing it for the reward. I don’t need… It… it was an honor for me – to help you get back your home.” He clenches both his hands, pressing them tightly to his chest, and Dwalin sees that they are trembling.

“If everyone valued home above gold… the world would be a much better place,” Thorin’s voice becomes no more than a whisper and he closes his eyes wearily.

Bilbo swallows loudly, not taking his eyes from the king’s ghostly pale face, but he can’t see from his place what Dwalin is seeing – the sheet that is already covered with dark rusty stains slowly turning red.

“Farewell, master burglar…”

With a hand against his mouth, Bilbo hastily turns away and hurries towards the opening.

“Thorin!” 

Dwalin rushes to the bed,takes off the blanket and throws it aside, freezing at the sight of the bandages soaked with blood. Thorin opens his eyes with great effort.

“And you…” he sends Dwalin a crooked smile and tries to reach out with his hand.

“Don’t you dare,” Dwalin barks, hastily taking off the bandages, layer by layer. “Don’t even think about saying goodbye!”

Thorin’s hand falls down helplessly on the covers.

“Óin!”

The old healer steps closer at once, pushing Dwalin aside.

“It looks bad.” He leans over Thorin. “Call the wizard. Now!”

Tharkûn is standing outside, just near the opening, speaking with Bilbo. He disappears into the tent, leaving Dwalin to just stand there, looking vacantly at the closed flap, but all he sees is the hand, white as a sheet, falling on the dark bear's fur. He hears a strangled voice behind his back. 

“I’m so sorry…” 

Dwalin turns around and then he is looking into Bilbo’s glistening eyes. Hobbit’s lower lip is trembling, and there are two narrow paths across his cheeks, cleaning away the caked blood and dust.

“So sorry…” 

Dwalin feels a rushing desire to make him shut his mouth, to silence him, so he can't speak it out loud, can't even think about it, because it can’t be true. It can’t. Can’t… When he comes to his senses again, he is shaking the hobbit by his shoulders, and the latter is dangling in his hands like a rag doll. Dwalin recoils as if his fingers got burned, and notices Bilbo’s terrified gaze, fixed on Dwalin palms. Crimson red palms with thick drops of blood falling in the snow from them…

Dwalin sits up in his bed, gulping in air. His heart is beating violently in his chest as if wanting to break through. He unclenches his fists, grasping the blanket, and then holds up his palms, staring at the dark outlines. The fire has long since died out and in the bleak light of the moon, falling from the small window high on the wall, everything seems gray, strangely luminescent like the fabric of elven robes. And his hands are gray too, yellowish maybe, and there are no bloody stains on them. It was just a dream.

His breathing evens out slowly, so he lies back, staring at the ceiling. This dream continues pestering him. In the daytime he knows well that Thorin is alive, that he is getting better with every passing day, that soon he’ll tell Óin to fuck off and will leave the healing quarters… But in his dreams the hand white as a sheet always falls on the blanket, and again and again his own life ends with this one movement. And again drops of blood, of _his_ blood are falling from his palms into the snow…

Dwalin sighs and throws his hands behind his head. It seems as if he can forget getting some sleep tonight. The nightmare always comes to him long before dawn, leaving him to toss from one side to another and fight with the absurd desire to go and see if Thorin is well.

Outside the moon comes through the clouds, the shadows become thicker and the outlines sharper. He still can’t quite get used to the greenish marble of the walls, to the height of the caverns and the typical Erebor carvings over the fireplace – all they had been dreaming of, all they had been craving over all these years. What if this is a dream too? What if he opens his eyes and finds himself in the sombre tent again with bloody stains on his hands…

Dwalin sits up and reaches for his boots.

At this hour the hallways are empty. He opens the door and cautiously steps outside, trying to walk as quietly as possible.

Thorin is lying on his back, his hair spread on the pillow. In the moonlight it’s easy to notice a thin scar crossing his eyebrow and going down to his nose.  
 _  
“Just like Dwalin’s.” Kili's eyes twinkle with mischief. “It’s hard to tell you apart now.”_

Overall, Dwalin still has more scars than Thorin. There are minor ones and long ones, flat and bumpy ones - marks from arrow wounds, from blades and fangs… Thorin’s, in contrast, are more terrifying. Wide swollen cicatrices from still healing wounds, each one of which could have been mortal. Sometimes he seems to feel the pain from these scars more than that from his own. 

Dwalin cranes his neck, staring at Thorin’s hand lying on his stomach in order to catch the rhythm of his breathing. Thorin stirs and turns his head slightly, and Dwalin breathes out with relief, noticing belatedly that all this time he had been holding his breath. 

_A nervous dumbhead._  
  
Now he should better get out quickly before Thorin wakes up.

“Dwalin?” 

Thorin blinks several times, raising himself on his elbow.

He could say, of course, that he had heard some suspicious noise. Or that his old wounds kept bothering him, so he decided to come to the healing quarters to find some remedy.

“…go to bed, you.” Thorin turns over the corner of his blanket and rolls on his side, embracing the pillow.

Dwalin stands there in the middle of the room, looking at Thorin’s back showing white in the darkness and feeling like an utter fool. The best thing to do is turn around and leave. There will still be questions in the morning, and Mahal grant only from Thorin. A whiff of cold air is coming in from the door and Thorin shudders. Dwalin shrugs. He approaches the narrow cot, takes off his boots and lies down cautiously on the bed that is not meant for two. Thorin snorts and reaches for his hand, pulling him closer. Dwalin finds his even pulse with his own hand, closes his eyes and snuggles up to him, pressing his nose to the ear hidden behind the thick curtain of black hair.

Nightmares will leave, they always do. But this, this will stay with him for the rest of his life.   



End file.
